Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  After the two men broke their fast, they grabbed up their silver-laced tricorns and Brown Bess muskets, then left for their posts. I watched them from the keeping room window and saw the lieutenant call ahead to the captain, then turn back to the house. I busied myself with dishes at the sink when he reentered the house, opening the door to a town brewing heavy with rattling carts and horses clopping, people beginning their day.

  When I didn’t hear his boots on the stairs, I looked up. He stood, his gaze intense on me.

  “Can I retrieve something for you, sir?”

  He shook his head, fast. “Miss Liberty—I . . .”

  My hands stilled in the warm water.

  “I—I would not have the captain become too familiar with you.”

  I swallowed, my thoughts racing to piece meaning to his words. I was not some camp girl. After months of knowing me, did he think so little of me?

  I dried my hands on my apron and turned to better face him. “I would not have it so, either.”

  He stepped forward. “What I mean is, I will not allow him to be. I do not want you to feel unsafe in this house, ever. Please . . . will you come to me if—if the captain makes you feel so?”

  My heart near leapt forth from my chest at the sight of the man before me, vowing to once again keep me safe, to be strong where I only felt weak.

  “I will, sir. Thank you.”

  He left, and I again pondered the bursting hope in my chest, longing to be set free. I attempted to convince myself it was due to the impending arrival of spring and the prospect of seeing James, of both of us finding a way together at last. But deep in my heart, I knew it was more.

  It was the book in my pocket. The lieutenant’s promise of protection. The way he looked at me as if he wanted to care for me.

  How long had it been since someone had taken care of me?

  And yet there could be no way for us. I was a traitor to the Sons and Daughters of Liberty to even entertain such a notion, to be living in this house to begin with. The lieutenant belonged to the king, and I had vowed to stand by my brother and forever be counted a Patriot.

  I STARED AT the television screen, the last warm puff of Anna’s animated breath dissipating against the backdrop of white, her body turning to ice.

  I’d started watching Disney’s Frozen with Emilia, my landlord’s eight-year-old daughter, yet her mom had called her in for bed before we’d finished the movie. The girl knew all the songs by heart, singing them without shame.

  Now I watched alone as Elsa cried over Anna’s icy body.

  I glanced at the business card I’d found at Lydia’s house earlier in the day. It lay on my coffee table beside an empty popcorn bowl, kernels congealed to the bottom in now-hardened butter.

  I dug the ring from beneath my sweater, warm from sitting close to my skin. I compared the identical emblems once again. Where had Lydia gotten the card?

  So many questions. So many walls to break down. And I’d likely created another one by spilling news of the move—something my sister hadn’t yet mentioned to Grace.

  I ran my thumb over the card. The crest was only a small portion of it. The other, larger image was of a wooden arbor.

  Kilroy Construction

  Carpentry, Design, Restoration

  Helping your home tell its story.

  The number on the bottom glared up at me. I remembered the weeks following the bombing, the promise of the man in the Red Sox sweatshirt to find me, the empty passing days where chances thinned that he would keep that promise.

  I let the ring drop from my fingers to hang at my neck. I couldn’t imagine broaching the subject with Lydia after our icy reunion that afternoon. If I wanted to find out whether this man belonged in my fairy-tale nightmare, whether the man on the card belonged to the ring, I would have to find out myself.

  I scooped up my cell phone and, without dwelling too much on the consequences, punched in the numbers, my fingers trembling.

  On the first ring, the possibility that he just didn’t want to find me hung in my mind. On the second, I pondered whether the signet ring wasn’t truly valuable at all and my mystery hero gave duplicates out to every woman in distress. On the third, I felt certain his wife would pick up.

  The fourth ring was cut short. “Hello?” A male voice.

  I swallowed, my bottom lip quivering. “Hi—um, I’m looking for Bradford?”

  He laughed—a deep, pleasant sound. “You must have my business card. Don’t know why I ever decided to put my full name on there. Yes, this is Brad.”

  I was able to draw a breath around my anxiety. “Hi . . . my name is Annie David. I—well, this might sound strange, but I was a victim in the marathon bombing a couple years ago and . . . I have this ring. Someone gave it to me that—”

  “No way.”

  I held my breath. Was that . . . recognition? “Is it—is it yours?”

  I listened to a whoosh of air releasing on the other end. “Wow. I mean, yes. Yes, it is. I thought I’d never find you again.”

  Find the ring. Of course he meant he thought he’d never find the ring, not me personally.

  “You were the one that day, then? The man who saved me?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know that I saved you. By the time I got to you, the blast had already done its work. But yeah, I helped you that day.”

  But he’d done so much more. He had to know. While everyone was running away from the explosions, he ran toward them. “I’ve wanted to thank you for so long. I—” Words escaped me. It felt foolish to gush to him over the phone when he seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing. “Your ring—I’ve wanted to return it since I woke up in the hospital.”

  I fisted the gold in my palm once again, tried to imagine parting with it. For goodness’ sake, I’d treated the object like some sort of spiritual talisman these past two years. I’d feel naked without it.

  But it didn’t belong to me. I’d known that from the beginning.

  “Great.” He cleared his throat. “I’d love to meet you. Please, name a time and a place. I’ll be there.”

  “Are you local, then? I live in Lexington.”

  “No kidding. My family’s been there for years. Nice place. I live in Quincy, actually.”

  All this time, and he’d been no farther than the Red Line. Paul Revere on horseback could have gotten to him faster than I had.

  I scrambled for a meeting place. As much as I hated to admit it, Boston made the most sense. “I have a meeting near Faneuil Hall tomorrow. Maybe we could grab some coffee around five?” Downtown Boston didn’t bother me much. Up until a couple months ago, I’d worked there, breathed in Boston’s historic district. It was the Back Bay and its taunting memories I tried to stay clear of.

  “Absolutely. Union Oyster okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  We said good-bye and hung up. I unclasped the chain from my neck and slid it from the ring.

  I felt good. I had taken my fate into my own hands instead of waiting for it to be handed to me. This was a new feeling, a new achievement. Taking the initiative, creating my own possibilities, had never been my strong suit. I’d gone to college for finance because that’s what Dad had suggested. I’d signed up for the Boston Marathon because Grace had urged me to. Heck, I barely ever made so much as an eye doctor’s appointment without getting the reminder in the mail at least twice. But this—calling Brad Kilroy, finding my rescuer—this I had done. Without anyone else’s help, particularly my sister’s.

  I looked down at the gold anchor, the Latin words I’d long ago memorized. How many times had I wondered over its story, imagined it entwined with my own? I hoped Brad could fill in some answers for me—about the ring, about that tragic day that still haunted me like a persistent ghost, about how my sister had come to be the keeper of his card.

  I dug my hands in my pockets as I exited the bank and turned right. Snow piles huddled at the corners of buildings, the recent winter storms unrelenting, even into March. Across State Stree
t and in the midst of the pedestrian bustle ruled by traffic signals lay Boston’s Old State House. The brick building was the oldest still standing in the eastern part of the United States, the very same pictured in Paul Revere’s engraving of the Boston Massacre.

  Before the bombing, I used to frequent the sites of the Freedom Trail, eager to learn about the city’s rich history. Why had I stopped? None of the sites would take me to the Back Bay, that part of Boston being nonexistent in colonial days. Yet somewhere along the way, I’d given up things I loved. Running, hiking, exploring Boston like an overeager tourist instead of the resident I’d been since college.

  I braced myself against the wind, ignored the news vans, and walked north toward Union Oyster House. Passersby walked quickly and with purpose, dressed in skirts or suits. A family of four posed beside Samuel Adams’s statue in front of Faneuil Hall.

  I arrived at the restaurant early, but the hostess led me past the semicircular oyster bar and seated me, promising to point Brad in my direction.

  I inhaled the scents of corn bread, melted butter, and lobster and looked at the painted reliefs on the wall beside me. The painted musket pointing in my direction did little to calm my nerves. The red-coated British gentleman on the other end of the firearm seemed to stare at me. Above him hung a plaque in fine cursive as if announcing a wedding rather than the historic death of Patriot men. The Boston Massacre. March 5, 1770. Exactly two hundred forty-five years ago this very day—the day after the bombing trial began.

  Victory belongs to the one who is strong.

  I reached into a small compartment of my purse and felt for the gold. When I found its round coldness, I drew it out and placed it on the table. I already missed its steady weight hanging at my neck. But meeting my rescuer would be worth it, wouldn’t it?

  My chest trembled against a long breath. This was it. I was finally going to meet my hero. The man behind the ring would no longer be a mystery.

  “Annie?”

  I looked up to see . . . Paul Bunyan? The big man in the flannel shirt couldn’t be Red Sox Sweatshirt. He didn’t look all that athletic. Or heroic. Or how I remembered. A pencil stuck out from his Kilroy Construction hat, the pink eraser pointing toward his neatly trimmed beard.

  I gathered myself, chastised the inner girl in me longing for a Prince Charming. I stood and reached my hand to his own extended one. It felt warm and solid. “Brad, right? So nice to finally meet you.”

  He smiled, the gesture crinkling his sea-green eyes. “You, too.” He sat, took off his hat, and placed the pencil in it. “I had all intentions of cleaning up before meeting you, but I got held up at work. One of my guys went a little too demo-happy, and we had a hole to close up before we left. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  The waitress came over and placed a basket of corn bread on our table. Brad picked up his menu, pushed up his sleeves. I glimpsed a tattoo of a cross on the inside of his forearm. Whoa, definitely wasn’t expecting a tattooed savior.

  “Can I treat you to dinner instead of coffee?”

  “Sure.” Some food might help the sudden light-headedness taking over my brain. It would also give me more time to solve the many mysteries surrounding the day that haunted me.

  After the waitress took our orders, Brad’s gaze caught the ring sitting on the table. His thick fingers reached to grab it, but just before the calloused skin touched the ring, he stopped. “May I?”

  Crazy that he should ask, and yet it seemed fitting. I nudged the ring a couple inches toward him. “Of course. It’s yours, after all.”

  He picked it up, stared at it beneath the dim lights of the restaurant, tried to push it on over a massive finger, and chuckled. “Guess I haven’t lost any weight the past two years. Still doesn’t fit.” He placed it back on the table.

  I smiled. “Thank you for leaving it with me that day. I’m not sure why you did—or even why you chose to help me—but thank you.”

  He shifted in his seat, seeming uncomfortable with the expression of gratitude. “They were able to save your foot?”

  “Good as new.” I stuck my foot out from under the table and wiggled it. I felt only a small pinch in the back of my leg. A shard of glass had lodged itself there on the day of the bombing. Though the X-rays showed all the glass had been removed during surgery, I could still feel the slight pain when I flexed my foot, but I had never complained to the doctor. In some twisted way, I liked it there. Such a small reminder of the pain others—like my niece—would have to endure for a lifetime. The pain I’d run away from. The pain I was now being shut out of.

  I blinked, brought myself back to the present. Brad’s arms rested on the table, his gaze intense on me. The woodsy scent I vaguely remembered from the day of the bombing plucked chords of emotion against my heart. I looked away, tried to conjure up the mental checklist I’d written. There were so many things I wanted to tell him, so many things I wanted to ask.

  I wiped my hands on the legs of my pants. “This might sound silly, but I want you to know how you gave me hope that day, that week. Since then, whenever I felt the world was collapsing in on me with its evil, I’d look at that ring and remember what you did. I remembered that there was still good in it. Thank you.”

  He smiled and a slight quivering started in my chest. He really did have a nice-looking face. Who said Paul Bunyan couldn’t be handsome?

  “You know, that’s not the first time that ring’s given someone hope. I think that’s why I thought to leave it with you.”

  “Oh?” I tried to draw him out with the one word.

  “I kept the thing in my pocket all the time. Went right in with my wallet and phone every day. It’s some sort of a family heirloom, but no one knows the entire story. It belonged to my great-great—like five-times-great—grandfather.” He sipped his water. “When I was deployed in Iraq . . . I went through some tough times. My dad sent it over to me with a letter. He died the day after he mailed it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  His eyes shone beneath the dim lighting of the wall sconce. “I didn’t want to leave you that day. I didn’t, but I had to help. It’s who I am. I thought the ring would keep us connected.”

  I felt suddenly warm. I wanted to take the glass of ice water before me and press it to my forehead. I blew an upward breath, pushing my bangs off my face instead. “That ring was the only tangible evidence I had that you’d been real. If I didn’t have it, I would have convinced myself long ago I’d made you up.”

  The waitress brought my broiled scrod and Brad’s lobster ravioli. I smoothed the cloth napkin over my lap.

  Brad scooped up the ring, held it out. “You know, I think you should keep it a little longer.”

  “What? No. Absolutely not.”

  “I can tell it means a lot to you. I’ve been without it for almost two years now. I gave it to you that day. Keep it. Please.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I refused to reach for the proffered ring. “I’m not taking your family heirloom. You gave it with a promise to find me. You have, so now we’re even.”

  He placed the ring between our plates and split a ravioli in half with the end of his fork. Creamy pink sauce oozed around the edges of the lobster-stuffed pasta. “Only I didn’t find you. You found me.”

  “That’s neither here nor there.” Only, was it? I wanted to know—needed to know what had happened. I squeezed a lemon wedge over my scrod.

  “Truth is, I was expecting a call a lot sooner.” He picked up a piece of corn bread and began buttering it. “When a month went by, I thought that was it. You weren’t going to call.”

  I dipped the tines of my fork through the bread crumbs coating the top of my scrod and into the flesh of the fish but couldn’t find the strength or the appetite to lift it to my mouth. “I—I found your card at my sister’s house the other day.”

  He chewed, seeming thoughtful. “Huh. She never gave it to you. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She seemed really distract
ed that day at the hospital. Worried about you, probably.”

  “Her daughter—my niece—lost a leg in the bombing.”

  He nodded. “That explains it. I tried to stick around, but she really didn’t seem to want me there. Not rude or anything. I think she just didn’t want a stranger witnessing all the grief. Can’t really blame her.”

  I could. “For weeks I talked about finding you. She never said a word.” Not that I’d stuck around much longer to hear anything she had to say.

  He shrugged. “Trauma can do a number on people. I’m just glad you found me now.”

  Yeah, two whole years later, and only because I’d been a snoop in my sister’s house.

  He must have sensed my bitter thoughts, for he briskly changed the subject by asking what I did for work. We chatted through the meal, getting to know the thin veneer that strangers first reveal to one another. When the waitress brought our bill and Brad insisted on paying, I fought off a dull pang of disappointment. I’d longed for this night for almost two years, and now it was over. I grasped at my mental checklist to keep the conversation going. There was still something I wanted to know.

  I picked up the ring, still between us. “Do you know anything about the history of your family? I mean, what this crest stands for and all that? Like I said, it gave me hope. I’ve had two years to wonder what it all means, but I haven’t come up with much more than the Latin translation.”

  He closed his wallet, put it on the table. “Victory belongs to the one who is strong.”

  We shared a smile. “Is that what helped you when you were in the Middle East?”

  He shook his head. “Not so much the saying. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to handle it all. It was the fact that my dad had given it to me in the first place. I knew he understood; I knew he was rooting for me. Praying for me.”

  I felt a strange sense of relief that the words hadn’t magically transformed Brad into a pillar of strength either. “So you don’t know anything about the emblem? The name?”

  “Never really thought about it, I guess. My father never told me—likely he never knew.” My expression must have showed my disappointment, for he rallied quickly. “But you know what, it could be interesting to find out. Maybe I could look into it.”